Her Prince, Her Thief
by eleven19
Summary: Based on the tumblr prompt that my peeps told me to write: Person A breaks into Person B's Castle Sheltered Princess Emma daydreaming about a floofy-haired thief, who beneath his charismatic facade is actually a puppy. AKA, Neal is an adorable little scamp, and Emma is an adorable little disaster-princess.


_And then he took her hand, pressing a kiss between her knuckles. She caught her breath as he looked up, a twinkle dancing in his warm brown eyes._

 _"Good night, sweet princess."_

 _She graced him with a small smile, her skirts delicately brushing the floor as she curtsied. "Good night, my lord," she said softly. "I hope our paths cross again, in the near future."_

 _Briefly, his gentlemanly demeanor slipped, and she caught a flash of the cheeky scoundrel he was. "I've a feeling, our paths will cross many times, Princess," he winked. "Many, many times."_

 _She dropped her eyes, lest the world see the glow in them. Fewer things in this world are more obvious than a young girl in love, and she was positively radiant with it. Indeed, it nearly broke her heart when he relinquished her hand, sweeping away without a backward glance._

 _Until…_

 _She lifted her head just as he reached the door—just in time to see him turn and look over his shoulder. He held her gaze…and the world melted away. There was nothing but the silent intensity between them—the fervent knowledge that he loved her and she loved him, and not even the Devil himself could—_

"Emma?" Someone shook her shoulder roughly, jostling her awake. "Emma!"

"Hmm?" Emma sleepily lifted her head, her eyes flickering open. The musicians were still strumming their gentle, lulling tone; the delicate notes weighing down her lashes again…so lovely, so…so very…

"Emma!"

"I'm awake, I'm awake!"

Queen Snow looked at her scandalously. "You should not need to reassure me!" she hissed. "Every noble family in the kingdom is here!"

"I'm sorry," Emma whispered back.

Snow sat back, pursing her lips. "At least try to make an effort not to drool in front of everyone," she said. "Gods know, it's humiliating enough having you just sit there, like a sack of potatoes—"

"And as I said, Mother, it would be more humiliating watching me attempt to dance." Naturally, in all her daydreams, she was as lithe and graceful as a woodland fairy; alas, in reality, only the court fool was clumsier than she—and much of his was an act.

Emma could feel her eyes glazing over again as she watched the courtiers move in slow circles, sweeping their arms in an over-practiced dance. The musicians dutifully plucked their instruments, slow and steady…Dull, beyond comprehension. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up falling asleep again.

"I'm going to stretch my legs," she muttered to Snow, who merely _hmphed_ in response. Emma raised her eyes to the ceiling, but said nothing more as she got up from her seat. Silently sending a quick prayer to the gods that she wouldn't trip on her way out, she sidled her way through dancing couples; indeed, she managed to make it across the room and out the door without so much as a stumble.

Well. Perhaps, the gods were not as merciless as the Holy Scrolls raged.

She slipped through the door, shutting it behind her; she braced her back against it, closing her eyes and letting out a relieved breath. To be away from the throngs of people… from the pressure of being a socially graceful young woman, when she could barely manage to sip tea without spilling it…Here, in this dim candlelit room, with no one else around, she was free to be as much a disaster as she pleased.

Not that it _pleased_ her to be like this: all her daydreams cast her as the beautiful, delicate princess with a gentle heart and soft voice. Gods knew, that was as much a fantasy as her handsome prince! _Gentle_ and _soft_ described everything Emma wasn't.

She pushed away from the door, holding her hands loosely behind her back as she wandered around the room. Dusty scrolls, ink-blotted parchment…tell-tale signs of a clerk's office. Probably one of the theologians, she decided, idly picking up a translation of the Seventh Scroll. They spent all day with their noses pressed to the books, deciphering the dead languages—

A small clatter pricked her ears, making her look up with wide eyes; her heart pounding. "Hello?" she called. "Is—is someone there?"

There was no answer, but she could have sworn she head a muttered curse. Emma frowned, slowly lifting the Scroll as if it were a weapon. An extremely unhelpful weapon, she thought in the back of her mind, but there was no helping that right now. She edged toward the corner, holding it over her head.

"Who's there?" she ventured. "I-I warn you: I'm armed, and my guards are very close by, so don't try anything!"

Again, silence: but it was such a tense silence, she felt certain the someone was there, holding his breath—preparing to make a break for it, she realized. The only door was behind her, so the only other option was the window—

Glass shattered. Emma's eyes widened as she watched a gloved hand suddenly reach up to grip the ledge, and a shadowy figure swung his legs up—

"No!" she shouted, barreling into him. The someone let out a small " _oof!"_ as they tumbled to the floor, his head hitting the floor with a dull _thud!_ Emma sat up, slightly out of breath as she pushed her hair back, and looked down at the thief (as she assumed from the bulky satchel around his neck) with narrowed eyes.

"Now, then—" she put a hand to her ribs, still trying to catch her breath—"who…are you?"

"N-no one important, milady," he said in a strained voice.

"Really?" she said, lifting a dubious eyebrow. "And what were you trying to steal?"

"Just a few trinkets, nothing more—gah!" he yelped as she suddenly ripped off his mask. Emma tossed it to the side, and snatched up the satchel.

"And what have we here?" She upended it, dumping out: a jewel-studded goblet, three golden plates, some silver candlesticks. Emma glowered, turning her gaze to the thief, prepared to deliver a barrage of threats that would send his head spinning—

She dropped the satchel.

It was _him._

Every detail…The messy dark curls, the twinkling brown eyes—the crooked sort of handsome that made her both flustered and exasperated at the same time. He was the young man from her dream, in every—

She gasped as he suddenly pushed her off him and leapt to his feet. She hit the ground, hard, and whipped around; frantically reaching out to catch his ankle—stop him from escaping—

" _Uh!"_ He dropped, landing with a _thud!_ Emma scrambled to her feet, and tried to pin him down, but he was struggling too fiercely for her to manage anything more than dig her nails into his wrists.

"Get off me!"

"Thief!" she spat. "I should call my guards!"

"Bloody do it, then!" he retorted.

Emma's eyes widened: with a sudden burst of anger, she grabbed the back of his hair, and slammed his forehead into the floor; he let out a shout, but she clapped her hand over his mouth to muffle it.

"Be quiet!" she hissed. "Or I _will_ call my guards!"

He stared at her with wide eyes, but obeyed, holding his hands back in surrender. Breathing hard, Emma glared down at him, keeping her hand over his mouth.

How was it possible? How could he look _exactly_ like her prince, and be nothing more than a dirty low-life? The resemblance was strong enough to stop her from calling her guards, but still…the disappointment nearly broke her heart.

She looked down at him, shaking her head slightly. "How did you get in here?" she asked. "How did you make it through without being caught?"

He mumbled something, rolling his eyes. Emma removed her hand.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I think my current circumstances make it abundantly clear that I did _not_ make it through without being caught," he repeated.

"But _before_ that," she pressed. "How did you make it this far?"

He flashed a sarcastic smile at her. "I tiptoed _very quietly._ "

Emma exhaled impatiently. "Tell me honestly," she said. "And don't make fun of me."

"I would never make fun of you, milady," he patronized. "But if it helps: you've a party going on outside that makes it insultingly easy to blend in, provided one's got access to some rich-looking clothes."

"You mean…you just walked in?" Emma stared at him in disbelief. "Right under their noses, you just walked right in?"

"I have an advantage, milady. _I_ am extremely clever; and your staff is remarkably stupid."

Emma pursed her lips, reluctantly agreeing with him. "So, you're alone, then?" she asked. "No partners in crime, no accomplices waiting for you?"

"Not on this mission," he tossed back. "But yes, I've a group; and yes, they will notice if I'm gone."

 _This mission?_ "What does that mean, 'this mission'?" she frowned. "That makes it sound like…you're involved in some sort of organization."

The thief smiled. "You could say that." He flipped his hand out, exposing the underside of his wrist; Emma inhaled sharply, recognizing the tattoo etched into his skin.

"You're one of his," she realized. "You're one of Robin Hood's men."

Robin Hood…The greatest menace to society since the Plague. Once the son of a great noble himself, Robin of Loxley had fallen through the cracks of society and reemerged with a ragtag band of thieves, who traversed the country; stealing from the noblest families and humiliating them before the common people. It had gotten to the point where there were growing murmurs of following Robin and his men over the nobles; pledging allegiance to the Forest King over the Ordained. Like all children of high birth, Emma had learned to regard the name with fear and loathing.

And _him…_ her not-a-prince, he was _one of them._

"Thief!" she repeated viciously, hitting him with heel of her hand. "I _should_ call my guards!"

"You should," he agreed pleasantly, not even flinching. "Actually, you should have called for them a long time ago. Any reasonable person would have." His eyes gleamed. "Go ahead. _Call them._ "

Emma stared at him, caught between amazement and fury. How dare he address her like this! Him, a treasonous, anarchist thief—and she, a princess! Call the guards, indeed!

 _And have his friends come for him and siege the castle?_ she scolded herself. They'd come to break him out, and take the opportunity to ravage the place! Calling the guards? She might as well send Robin Hood a personal invitation to waltz right in, and take his bloody pick!

The thief grinned triumphantly: it was as though he could hear her thought process; as though he knew he'd already won, and was just waiting for her to surrender. "Come on, princess," he laughed. "Call your guards."

Emma glared, and pushed herself off him. "Get up!" she growled, hauling him to his feet by the neck of his tunic; he stumbled up, still grinning wickedly. Emma whipped around and strode back to the window, flinging it out open with a swing of her arm.

"Go on, then," she glowered. "Make your great escape. Run back to Robin Hood, and take your trinkets with you!" She kicked the satchel across the floor, ignoring the stab of pain in her foot.

He swept it up easily, flicking it over his shoulder; still laughing, he sauntered over to the window. " _Milady,"_ he grinned, sweeping her a mocking bow. Emma scoffed in disgust, tossing her head. The thief deftly climbed on the ledge, his boots touching the stones lightly as he prepared to scale down the tower; he turned his head, giving her a wink over his shoulder.

"Baelfire, since you were wondering."

Emma blinked. "What?"

"My name," he explained "It's Baelfire."

She twitched a smile, despite herself. "Farewell, Baelfire," she said dryly. "Safe journey home."

"Farewell, sweet lady," he grinned, giving her another mocking flourish of his hand."I _do_ hope our paths cross again."

"Hmph." Emma flicked her eyes, so he wouldn't see the amusement in them. "Perhaps they will, Baelfire."


End file.
